A Step Too Far
by Dead Poet
Summary: 3 part series of oneshots inspired by the lyrics of A Step Too Far from Aida, exploring Catherina and Abel's complex relationship.  CatherinaxAbel kinda sorta definitely maybe.  Rated for omg!sex.
1. Part I:  Half a Step Behind

_**Disclaimer: **Trinity Blood_ and its characters belong to Sunao Yoshida. Not me. The lyrics are from the musical "Aida," written by Elton John. Also not me.

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Part I: Half a Step Behind

_It's so strange he doesn't show me_  
_more affection than he needs._  
_Almost formal, too respectful,_  
_never takes romantic leads._  
_There are times when I imagine_  
_I'm not always on his mind._  
_He's not thinking what I'm thinking._  
_Always half a step behind._

She hated birthdays. They were a special occasion of the utmost pretense. The guests were chosen, not for their relationships with her, but for their political potential. The traditional formal dinner was made, not to honor or please her, but to impress. It was much the same with the gifts.

And so, rather than celebrate, she worked. She performed as she had been trained to do. She ensured that her sweet, false smile did not waver for a moment. She chatted politely with her family and their guests--most of whom she didn't like, in the least. She thanked them all profusely for their meaningless gifts.

And the moment she had finished exchanging handshakes and pleasantries with the last of the guests, she made her escape. She practically ran from the building, out to the path toward the gardens that had served as her own personal sanctuary for as long as she could remember.

She smiled genuinely for the first time in hours as she stepped through the archway that had always seemed like a door to another world to her--a world of peace and beauty, so unlike the one in which she lived. She paused, for a moment, closing her eyes and breathing in the mingling scents of flowers and grass and earth that drifted on the warm evening breeze. How wonderful it was to breathe again.

But unlike the blossoms that surrounded her, she'd never been content to plant herself in one place for too long. And so, she wandered aimlessly along familiar meandering paths, her feet carrying her, without thought, to all of her favorite places.

So it was that she found herself in the grotto, standing on the first of the three stone steps that led up to the stone niche, which housed a beautiful statue of the Virgin Mary.

"Ah, there you are."

She smiled at the sound of that welcome voice, turning to face the person she'd been waiting all day to see.

"Abel." What she'd intended as a greeting sounded more like sigh of relief.

"Miss Catherina." He gave her a nod and a knowing smile as she cringed inwardly at the formality of the greeting. He'd been doing that sort of thing a lot lately. Perhaps he was simply trying to treat her more like an adult. After all, she had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday. Or perhaps some outside party had suggested that their relationship was too friendly, and he sought to rectify that appearance. Whatever the reason, she didn't like it. She didn't like the feeling that her closest friend was trying to put distance between them.

Of course, it probably wouldn't have bothered her so much were she not in love with him.

"Did your party go well?" he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She shrugged. "I suppose. Though, I'd hardly call it a party." She turned to study the blooms of the wisteria clinging to the stone. "I wish you'd been there," she said quietly.

He gave her a lopsided smile and shook his head. "No, you don't," he said, waving a hand. "I'm not much of a party guest. I'd have eaten all the cake, made a scene... Speaking of cake--"

"I saved you piece," she said, grinning.

"Why, thank you, Miss Catherina. You're so thoughtful."

She'd had quite enough of this "Miss" business and was just about to tell him so when he interrupted.

"Ah! Before I forget..." He reached into one of the voluminous pockets of his white coat and produced a neatly wrapped package. "Happy Birthday."

She took the package, hesitating for a moment, her smile faltering a bit as she thought that it hadn't been so very long ago that those elegant gloved hands had often held her own.

She glanced up at him, smiling anew as she noted his eager expression. In some ways, at least, he hadn't changed a bit. Suddenly overcome with curiosity, she turned her attention to the package, untying the ribbon and gently removing the paper.

"I know you already have it," he said as she stared at the book. "But your copy is so old and worn... I thought you could use a new one."

He was right. Her copy was, quite literally, falling apart. This one, however, was perfect and pristine and beautiful. It was bound in a deep red leather, the pages edged in gold, the title stamped in golden letters in an intricate, archaic script. _Frankenstein_. It was her favorite book.

It was the only meaningful gift she'd received.

"Oh, Abel," she whispered, her fingers tracing the gilded letters. "Thank you."

Her next action was purely impulsive. She didn't think as she threw her arms around him. Consideration didn't come until a moment later, when he hesitated and she held her breath. When at last he returned the gesture, he did so delicately, cautiously, in the most polite and respectful manner possible.

"You're welcome, Miss Catherina," he said quietly.

She sighed and pulled away, her heart aching.

"Abel..."

Didn't he understand? Didn't he know? How could he _not_? He was her closest friend--the only person who really _knew_ her at all. Was it possible that he didn't know how she felt?

For a long moment she studied those familiar blue eyes, seeking an answer. But all she found was more questioning echoed back at her. He was waiting and wondering what it was that she had to say.

There were a hundred things she wanted to tell him and a hundred ways to do so--hundreds of words and phrases to choose from and none of them quite right. And then it occurred to her that there was one way to tell him _everything_. One simple, perfect way...

So she did it. She kissed him.

Everything stopped--the turning of the world, the passing of time, the beating of her heart--as she stood with her lips pressed gently yet fervently against his, her eyes closed, hoping and praying and waiting.

Her heart leapt as she felt his hands on her shoulders and fell as he gently pushed her away.

"Don't," he whispered.

She turned away as she felt her face reddening and poured out her heart in an instinctive defense. "I love you."

"I know," he said. "You shouldn't."

She clenched her jaw as her swirling emotions settled on fiery determination. "Maybe not," she admitted, "but I _do_. And I don't care what anyone else thinks. I don't give a damn if it's not 'proper' or--"

"That's not what I mean," he interrupted, shaking his head.

"Then what _do _you mean?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Tell me, Abel. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't love you."

He crossed his arms, as well, mirroring her resolute posture. "Because I'm not who you think I am," he stated, continuing before she had the chance to argue. "Because you don't know me half as well as you think you do. Because it is dangerous, and you'll only wind up hurt. But mostly, because I'm not worthy of being loved. By anyone."

His words hung for a moment in the suddenly still and silent air. Then she slapped him.

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. If he was hurt, he didn't show it. If he was angry, he didn't show it. He was utterly still and silent, as if carved from stone--or perhaps ice.

Catherina was his exact antithesis--a conflagration. "How dare you," she growled. "How dare you think that I would be stupid enough to waste my love on anyone unworthy of it."

He regarded her calmly. "Catherina--"

"Furthermore," she interrupted. "Who are you? What don't I know? And when has loving anyone ever _not_ been dangerous?"

He finally moved. He finally looked away. "Catherina..." he began quietly. "I can't answer all that. I can't tell you who I am. I can only tell you who I'm not. I'm not your guardian angel. I'm not a knight in shining armor. I'm not even a good person." She had barely drawn breath to argue when he held up a hand to stop her. "I know you don't believe that, but it's true. There are a lot of things I haven't told you."

"Then tell me now," she pleaded.

For a moment, she could read the anguish written across his features before he covered it with simple regret.

"I can't," he whispered.

"Why not?" she asked.

It was awful to watch him struggle so desperately for the right words, and when his gaze finally met hers, for a moment, and she saw the look in his eyes, begging for an escape, she couldn't stand it any longer.

"Never mind," she said. "Forget all that. I just want you to give me an honest answer to one simple question. Yes or no: do you love me?"

He closed his eyes and sighed. "Catherina--"

"Yes or no," she repeated.

He met her gaze resolutely, and shook his head. "No," he whispered.

She regarded him calmly and quietly, for a moment, then she nodded. "You're right, Abel" she said. "You're not who I thought you were. I never thought you would lie to me."

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**A/N:** Part II has been written and is currently in the editing process. It should be up soon. Probably sooner if I get lots of nice reviews. (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) 


	2. Part II: A Life Turned on its Head

**Warning: **There is SEX in this segment. It's fairly explicit. The story's rated M for a reason. You have been warned.

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Part II: A Life Turned On Its Head

_I'm in every kind of trouble._  
_Can't you tell? Just look at me._  
_Half ecstatic, half dejected._  
_All in all I'm all at sea._  
_Easy terms I thought I wanted_  
_Fill me now with chilling dread._  
_You could never know the chaos_  
_Of a life turned on its head._

Etiquette would have left him standing until given permission to sit. He ignored etiquette and immediately sank into one of the plush chairs in front of her desk. Catherina ignored tradition and, rather than reprimand him for the slip, poured him a cup of tea.

He gazed at the delicate, floral-patterned china but didn't touch it.

"You were supposed to report to Sister Kate upon completion of your mission," Catherina stated.

"I forgot," he muttered, still staring at the teacup.

She was silent for some time, and Abel knew she was watching him, studying him. What was she looking for? Was she wondering how much of the blood he was covered in was his own? Was she trying to reconstruct what may have occurred from the evidence that sat before her? Was she searching, yet again, for a crack in his carefully constructed walls? Was she blind?

"Well, Father Nightroad, was your mission successful?" she questioned, at last.

He glanced up at her to find that her expression held no more warmth than her voice. If she had any feelings left for him at all, she had learned to hide them behind a wall of cool efficiency. He shouldn't have been surprised. After all, she'd learned from a master.

He contemplated the red cross on the back of his glove, for a moment, before responding. "In a manner of speaking," he said.

"In a manner of speaking?" she repeated, lacing her fingers together as she leaned forward.

He idly fingered the intricate carvings on the arm of the chair. "Well, that particular gang of Methuselah won't be terrorizing the village anymore," he said. "Unfortunately, we won't be interrogating them either."

He looked up to find her cool efficiency replaced by questioning tinged with concern. She'd learned a great deal, but she was still just a novice.

"Abel..."

"They're dead," he answered before she could ask. "All of them. Slaughtered. Massacred. Ripped to pieces. Torn to shreds. And their captives... Yes, they kept captives. Young girls, mostly, for reasons I'm sure you can surmise. If the poor creatures weren't traumatized before, they certainly are now."

He leaned forward and snatched the bowl full of sugar cubes from the tray, dropping them one by one into his tea while Catherina watched silently, his words hanging in the suddenly dense, heavy air.

_Just ask, Catherina. I know you want to. Just ask, and I'll tell you the truth this time._

"Abel..." She caught his wrist just as he was about to drop another sugar cube into his cup. He glanced up at her expectantly. She must have noticed that his hands were trembling. "That's fourteen."

"Oh," he muttered, frowning at the extra cube as he placed it back in the bowl and picked up his spoon.

For some time, the only sound in the room was the _clink_ of metal against porcelain--a ringing, fragile noise that, for some reason, made him cringe.

As he set his spoon aside, Catherina fixed him with a stern gaze.

"What they were doing is unforgivable, and they deserved nothing less than the punishment they received," she stated.

He picked up his cup and seemed to consider its contents, for a moment. "That's a very simple way of looking at things, Catherina," he said quietly. "And that's not the point."

Catherina frowned at him. "Then what _is_ the point?" she asked, a hint of exasperation creeping into her voice.

He took a sip of his tea, then carefully set the cup back on its saucer. "The point is," he began, meeting her inquisitive gaze resolutely, "I can't do this."

Something close to panic flashed in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I'm sorry, Catherina," he said softly. "I can be your friend; I can be your confidant; I can be your guardian. But I can't be your weapon."

She frowned at him. "Is that what you think I'm doing--using you as a weapon?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Am I wrong?"

"Yes, Abel," she said quietly. "I would never _use_ you."

He was quiet, for a moment, picking up his cup again and sipping thoughtfully, his eyes on a stack of papers that sat on the corner of her desk.

"There are other agents," he pointed out, at last. "Why did you send me?"

Catherina shrugged slightly. "Because I trust you."

"Why did you send me alone?" he asked.

"I saw no need to send anyone else," she stated.

Abel nodded. "You sent me out alone to face an entire gang of Methuselah. You knew what I would have to do, and you left me with no choice."

"You could have said 'no'," she pointed out quietly.

Abel was silent and still, for a moment. Then he laughed.

Catherina frowned, her expression caught between concern and annoyance.

"I could have said 'no'?" he repeated, still chuckling. "Tell me, Catherina, if you ordered your well-trained, obedient dog to sit, and he said 'no,' what would you do?"

He was still laughing. Catherina looked anything but amused.

"Abel--"

"That's the problem, Catherina," he interrupted, suddenly serious. "I couldn't have said 'no' to you even if I'd wanted to. I can deny myself. Usually, I can deny... _them_. But you..." He shook his head. "I'd destroy every living thing on this planet, if you asked me to."

He looked up at her then and smiled as a tear slipped down his cheek.

Catherina stood slowly, the impersonal distance the desk imposed between them suddenly intolerable.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Abel, what happened?" she asked gently.

Suddenly, his smile seemed less fragile. The desperation vanished from his eyes. She could almost see him laying the bricks to rebuild the wall that had begun to crack.

"Nothing. Your pet monster did his job and got his treat, that's all," he said. "And now that his work is done and his belly is full, he's quite ready for a nice nap."

He moved to stand, but she pushed him back.

"No."

He tried to ignore her fingertips still resting against his chest.

"You're not going to lock me in the kennel, are you?"

She almost slapped him. He knew she wanted to. Instead, she took a step back and crossed her arms.

"Abel, stop it," she demanded. "That's not going to work."

He blinked up at her, the very picture of innocent confusion. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

He expected her to sigh in exasperation, to give up and change the subject, to give in to frustration and strike him. He certainly didn't expect her to kneel before him and take his face in her hands, and when she did he found it suddenly hard to breathe, hard to think through the pleasure and panic.

"Why do you always do this?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

He stared at the gold embroidery on her sleeve. "Because it's easier this way," he said.

"For who, Abel?" she challenged. "Because it certainly isn't easy for me. I know you don't want to hear it, but I love you. And it breaks my heart to watch you try so hard to pretend that you're fine when I can see that you're not. And it can't be easy for you to bear all of your burdens alone."

"Would you rather I share them with you? Honestly?" he asked quietly. "Do you truly believe that knowing how I feel would hurt you any less?"

"No," she said. "But it couldn't hurt me any more. And any burden is lighter when two people carry it."

He closed his eyes, unable to bear her sorrowful, beseeching gaze any longer. "Catherina, please..."

"I did this to you," she whispered, fingering the blood-stained strands of silver hair that hung in his face. "I sent you out to fight them, thinking it was just that simple--like sending a cat to catch a mouse. But it was much more than that, wasn't it?"

He said nothing.

"Wasn't it?" she repeated firmly.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Then tell me," she pleaded, caressing his cheek. "Tell me what I've done to you."

He broke then, his own dichotomous desires--the habitual need to withdraw and the temptation to reach out--pulling him apart, her words severing the last tenuous strands that held him together.

He broke. And with a desperate, frustrated sob, he crumpled. And when she placed a comforting hand on his back, he threw his arms around her, clinging desperately, gasping for breath, feeling for all the world as if her were drowning.

"I'm sorry," he whispered when he found enough air to speak. "I'm sorry. You didn't do anything. It's not your fault. It's mine. All mine. I thought I'd changed. I thought I was a better person. But I'm not. I haven't changed at all. I'm still a monster."

"Abel--"

"No one deserves what I did to them, Catherina. I took my time. I tortured them. And I enjoyed it. While they screamed, I laughed."

She would assume, of course, that he was referring to what had occurred earlier that evening. In truth, those words could have described any of a terrible number of such events, and it was a blood-soaked memory centuries old that haunted him as he spoke.

He'd nearly forgotten she was there--and was a bit surprised to find that she hadn't left him to suffer alone--when Catherina spoke.

"You did? Or _they _did?" she asked.

And there is was--the perfect opportunity to absolve himself. He could easily place the blame on the krusnik-the accursed parasites that inhabited his body. After all, hadn't they been the ones in control at the time? He could even almost convince himself that they had forcibly taken that control, that he simply hadn't been strong enough to fight them. It was tempting to believe-as those few who knew of his dichotomy seemed to-that there was a distinct line between Abel Nightroad and Krusnik 02. But he knew better. And this conscience wouldn't let him pretend otherwise.

"_We_ did," he answered quietly. "You can't separate us, Catherina."

She said nothing. Probably, he thought, because she didn't know _what_ to say. Had he shattered her comfortable illusion? Would her feelings for him change now?

He couldn't quite bring himself to care. The future seemed strangely distant-far too distant for his weary mind to grasp. There was only now. Now there were warm, gentle arms holding him, a subtle scent of flowers, the caring presence of another human being. Now-for the first time in more years than he cared to count-he didn't feel empty.

He was only vaguely aware of Catherina's slow, gentle movements as she idly ran her fingers through his hair-normally so soft and fine, now tangled and matted with dried blood. He knew nothing of the silent tears cascading down her own cheeks.

She quickly and quietly wiped them away. "You really need a bath," she muttered.

He lifted his head as her words sank in and-suddenly acutely aware of their close proximity-moved quickly to put distance between them. He stood and straightened his robes with a nervous laugh. "Yes. I... I suppose I do."

She made her way to her feet, as well--far more gracefully--and before he could turn for the door, she had extended a hand.

He stared at it, shaking his head.

Catherina took a step closer. "Abel, please. You're exhausted and You're a mess. Let me help."

He hesitated for another moment then, his heart pounding, he stepped forward and took her hand.

Why? Why couldn't he say 'no' to her? Never mind that he didn't really _want_ to. He _should_ have.

Instead, he found himself standing weak-kneed in the center of her large, ornate bath, his gaze drifting from one brilliant, polished surface to the next. Every inch of the room--from the bright, white porcelain tub to the smooth marble counter-tops to the gleaming, gold fixtures--was spotless, and it made him feel utterly filthy by comparison. He felt small and dirty, and the nervous fluttering in his stomach made him feel terribly childish, and the sudden rushing sound of running water did nothing to calm his nerves.

"Really, this isn't necessary," he said as Catherina turned from the tub.

"I know," she said patiently as she stepped behind him and pulled the ribbon from his hair.

Placing it on the counter-top, she completed her circle, standing before him once again. Without hesitation, she reached for the clasp of his cape, and in a moment of panic, he caught her wrist.

She looked neither surprised nor disappointed. She merely gave him a small, understanding smile. "I'll be back," she said, slipping from his grasp and out the door.

With a sigh he half collapsed, leaning heavily against the marble sink. He cast a glance at the door, wondering precisely where she had gone and whether or not he could escape back to his own quarters before she returned. Yes, back to his own quarters and his own shabby bath, where the water was likely to be lukewarm at best. Where he would be alone to watch the water turn that familiar shade of sickly pink as his thoughts turned bleak and grey at the memory of crimson and carnage and yet another reminder of how black his soul truly was. Where he would be alone with his misery, alone with his tears. Alone...

He unfastened his cape and tossed it into a corner. He didn't _want_ to be alone. He unhooked the metal adornments and set about unfastening his robes. He'd been alone for 900 years until fate had guided Catherina across his path. He unbuckled his boots and slipped them from his tired feet. The years since then had been a war, of sorts, as she fought to hold him close and he fought to push her away. After all that had transpired tonight, it seemed appropriate that he should lose this battle, as well.

He shouldn't have been surprised when Catherina chose the precise moment that he had removed the very last of his clothing to return. After all, he was Abel Nightroad, Patron Saint of Bad Luck. His defeat was bound to be humiliating.

Catherina, of course, handled the situation with the same grace and poise that marked all of her actions, busying herself with obtaining a towel long enough for him to slip into the blissfully warm water with its blessed layer of bubbles.

"Is the water all right?" she asked.

"Perfect," he sighed, closing his eyes.

When he opened them again, she had produced a small stool from somewhere and was taking a seat beside the tub. It was suddenly clear what she had been doing during her absence. Her ornate, heavy, red gown was gone, and in its place she wore a simple, light, ivory shift. It was startling to see her free from all the layers of lace and velvet in which she was normally ensconced, and Abel felt his face flush as he caught himself staring.

Taking a breath, he slipped beneath the surface of the water and considered staying there indefinitely. But knowing Catherina, she'd just come diving in after him.

He emerged with a sigh, wiping the water and soap from his eyes and fixing his gaze on the ornate golden faucet.

"Abel," Catherina sighed, "relax."

"I'd love to," he muttered with a wry smile. "But, with all due respect, I'm not exactly comfortable with the current circumstances."

"What? Being _naked_ in front of a _girl_?" Catherina chuckled, shaking her head. "Honestly, Abel, you've been around for centuries and you still act like a teenager."

He gave her a look that tried to be a glare but didn't quite succeed.

"Oh, and maneuvering me into a vulnerable position only to make fun of me? Yes, You're the very definition of maturity, Cat."

Her retort died on her lips, replaced by a wistful smile.

"You haven't called me that in years," she said softly.

He shrugged. "You grew up. It hardly seemed appropriate."

Her smile faded. "Like so many other things, I suppose," she whispered, bending to retrieve a bottle.

"What do you--"

"Never mind," she interrupted, turning her attention to the task of washing his hair.

He sighed, relaxing a bit, in spite of himself, as she worked.

"Abel?"

He opened his eyes, his heart fluttering at her somewhat hesitant tone. "Yes?"

She leaned her arms on the edge of the tub, letting her hands dangle in the water.

"What's it like?" she asked quietly.

"What?" he asked, though he was fairly certain he already knew to what it was she referred.

She looked uncertain for a moment, as if searching for the proper words.

"Changing," she said quietly, at last.

He took a breath and slipped beneath the surface of the water again--partly to

rinse the soap from his hair and partly to buy himself some time.

He didn't want to answer her. He didn't know _how_ to answer her. He wasn't sure it was possible to answer her. How on earth could he describe something that was completely unlike anything she had ever experienced? And why in the world did she want to know? She'd never asked before. Why was she asking now? And why was she grabbing his arm?

Oh. Right.

He surfaced with a gasp.

"Abel--"

"It's like drowning," he interrupted.

She blinked at him, confusion coloring her concern

"It's disorienting and terrifying," he continued. "Until you accept it. And then... it's almost peaceful."

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and he knew she didn't truly understand.

"And when you're..." She hesitated, staring at her hands, now folded in her lap. "Are you... I mean... Do you..."

He smiled sadly. "I know what you're thinking, Catherina," he said quietly. "And I already told you. You can't separate us."

She looked up at him, and he looked away, not trusting himself to keep the ache in his heart from showing in his eyes.

"I wish it worked that way," he said, his voice far too weak and raw for his own taste. "I wish I could tell you that they take over completely and I simply cease to exist. I wish I could blame all of the ghastly things I've done on them, but the truth is, we're a team."

He laughed bitterly, fresh tears stinging his eyes.

For some time, she was silent, and he stared at the pure, white wall, biting his lip, begging those tears not to fall. Not again.

"Ghastly?"

Her voice was quiet and intense with an edge that made his stomach twist.

He started at her touch as she began to wash the remaining streaks and splotches of blood from his face.

"Risking your own life to protect innocent human beings is hardly ghastly," she said.

He caught her wrist, finally turning to meet her gaze.

"Stop it," he growled. "Forgive my sins, if you must, but stop trying to justify them." He released his grip on her. "And give me a towel."

"No," she said, and for a moment, he thought she was refusing the latter of his requests. Then she stood and turned to retrieve one of the towels that sat on the countertop. "I'll stop justifying your sins when you learn to forgive yourself for them."

He hesitated for just a moment before snatching the towel from her and tackling the somewhat awkward task of extricating himself from the bath while simultaneously preserving his modesty. She did not politely turn her back this time but stood waiting mercilessly, her arms crossed and her jaw set. He avoided her gaze, staring instead at the white tiled floor as he wrapped the towel as securely as possible around his waist.

"I can't do that," he muttered, reaching past her to grab another towel, praying that her patience would run out, that she would grow tired of this game, that she would recognize the futility of all this and let it go--let _him _go.

"Why?" she asked. Another prayer unanswered.

He concentrated on the task of drying himself with all of the intense focus of a surgeon performing a delicate operation.

"I haven't the energy, the strength, or the desire to explain that," he said. "And frankly, I don't see why it matters."

He wasn't certain how it had happened, but suddenly the towel wasn't in his hands but on the floor, and Catherina wasn't an arm's length away but close--so close he could feel her breath as she spoke.

"It matters because I love you."

And then her lips were on his, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, and all he could think or feel was warmth--the gentle warmth of her lips, the heat of her body, pressed so close, a blessed warmth that flooded his soul and made him realize, for the first time, just how cold he had been.

And before he could think, his hands were in her hair, and his tongue had slipped past her parted lips, and he had pulled her body against his, and all he could think was that he wanted to draw from her every last ounce of warmth that he could--enough, perhaps, that he would never have to feel so terribly cold again.

But then he had to breathe.

And as he did--in quick, ragged gasps--the full weight of his actions crashed in upon him like a tidal wave. He eased his grip on her, backing away.

"Catherina, I... I'm--"

She silenced him with a fingertip against his lips.

"Don't you dare apologize," she said. "Not unless you're _truly_ sorry."

He laughed--a breathless, nervous chuckle. "I'm not," he muttered. "But still, I shouldn't have..." He shook his head.

"Why not?" she asked.

He gave her a small, sad smile. "I think we've had this conversation before," he said quietly.

She nodded solemnly. "Will you tell me now?" she asked.

"Tell you what?" he questioned, his still-pounding heart skipping a beat.

"What you did that was terrible enough to make you believe that you don't deserve even a moment of happiness."

"I _don't_ deserve it," he whispered, and before she could argue, he had captured her lips with his.

He kissed her slowly, gently this time. He didn't deserve this, but he was determined to savor it.

Catherina draped one arm around his neck while the fingers of her other hand trailed idly down his chest, sending an all-too-pleasant shiver along his spine, until she reached the top of the towel fastened precariously around his waist.

With a shuddering gasp, he tore himself away. He didn't deserve this...

He took a breath and opened his eyes, expecting her to look hurt, disappointed. She didn't. She looked patient and understanding, and somehow that was worse.

"Come here," she said with a gentle smile as she extended a hand.

He took it and followed--curious and terrified, utterly lost in the sea of conflicting emotions and desires--as she led him into her bedchambers. She stopped beside the bed and he more collapsed than sat on its edge, resting his head in his hands, wondering why on earth he was still here. He should have left long ago. He should be leaving _now_. He should be marching off to retrieve his clothes and make his escape. So why was he still sitting here?

His train of thought stopped short as he felt the bed shift and half turned to find Catherina moving to kneel behind him. His heart froze, for a moment, before he caught site of the golden comb in her hand. She gave him another of her gentle, reassuring smiles, and he turned cooperatively as she began combing his long, fine hair.

"You ought to leave your hair down more often," she mused as she worked.

He smiled slightly. "Weren't you the one who suggested I wear it up, in the first place?"

She chuckled. "Honestly? That was just a ploy to get my hands on it. I was quite amazed when it worked. And when you showed up the next day, still wearing that ribbon..."

He smiled fondly at the memory. Just a handful of years had passed since those simpler days, but it felt more like an eternity. So much had happened since then, so much had changed, and somehow, everything that had been so clear had become so clouded.

He sighed. He was tired of clouds. He was tired of complexities. He was tired of entangling himself in them, hiding amongst them, using them as an excuse. Would it really be so wrong to just let things be simple, for once?

"Catherina?" he began tentatively.

"Yes?"

"You were wrong," he said quietly.

She paused, and he turned to glance at her as she moved to sit beside him. "About what?" she asked.

He stared at his hands, fingering the edge of the towel, suddenly feeling exceedingly naked. "When you said that I didn't want to hear... that you love me... You were wrong."

He looked up to find an unreadable mix of emotions in her eyes. "I love you, Abel," she said.

He closed his eyes and let the words wash over him. He didn't deserve those words, but she was giving them to him, and who was he to refuse?

"I love you, too," he whispered.

And then there they were, their lips meeting again, and he shoved aside the voice in the back of his mind that screamed for him to stop, just stop while he still could. He ignored it and concentrated on memorizing the unique taste of her--honey and peppermint, Kate's tea and something he couldn't quite place. He ran his fingers through her soft, golden curls and thought of the way they caught the sunlight like a gilded halo. One hand wandered to one soft cheek and paused there, for a moment, before tracing the line of her jaw then trailing down to her throat where he could feel her pulse racing, like his own.

And then she pulled away, and his heart froze, a desperate panic urging him to cling to her. But then she was trailing feather-light kisses along his jaw. And then she was whispering in his ear, making him shudder.

"Let me show you how much I love you."

He opened his eyes to meet hers as she backed away, obviously awaiting his answer.

"Please," he breathed, and even to his own ears it was a pitifully desperate sound. But he didn't care if she knew of the aching need he felt, for he saw the same need reflected in her eyes, for a moment, before her lips were on his again, tender yet hungry. And then her hands were on his chest, pushing him back onto the bed.

For a moment she hovered there, kneeling over him, her hair falling like a curtain around him, her lips just centimeters from his. And then she shifted to plant a kiss on his jaw, his throat, his collarbone, traveling a slow, languid trail down his chest, just the faintest brushing of lips against flesh, inch by inch, driving him mad with the need for _more_.

And then she paused, her fingertips resting on the towel, and looked up at him imploringly.

He didn't trust his voice to function, so he nodded as best he could, then held his breath as she removed the cloth. She did so slowly, as if unwrapping a long-awaited present, being certain to savor each and every moment.

He gasped as he felt her breathe against him and didn't have the chance to stifle a moan as she ran the tip of her tongue along his length. She paused for a moment and glanced up at him as she flicked her tongue across the very tip, eliciting another gasp. And then she slowly took him into her mouth, as far as she could, and began working rhythmically, flicking at the head with her tongue on every stroke, and occasionally letting her teeth graze him as his breathing grew increasingly ragged, and he threw his head back and raised his hips to meet her.

And then she stopped, leaving him trembling and gasping for air.

Her lips began retracing their path--just as torturously slow as before--along one hip and up his chest. She made it as far as the junction of neck and shoulder before the tables turned, and she found herself pinned to the bed, his lips hungry on hers.

He trailed one hand along her shoulder, over the swell of her breast--still covered by that confounded silk gown--along her abdomen, across her hip, finally meeting her thigh and skin even softer than the silk.

He slipped his hand beneath the hem of the gown, caressing the inside of her thigh. When his fingers met lace, he impatiently tugged the garment aside, delighting in the beautiful little gasp she gave as he found her clitoris.

He watched, breathless, as she arched her back and whimpered, her brow slightly furrowed, every inch of her practically begging for more.

He ceased his ministrations, savoring her momentary disappointment before slowly sliding two long, elegant fingers into her, eliciting a moan that made him shiver.

He kept his pace achingly slow, a delicious sort of revenge. And as she tossed her head, he descended on her throat with tongue and teeth, pushing away the vaguely coherent portion of his mind that wanted to question his motivation for such action.

"This isn't fair," he muttered. "Why aren't you naked?"

Her breathless laughter was interrupted by a moan. "You... didn't give me... a chance," she breathed.

"Ah."

He couldn't help but smile at the little disappointed sound she uttered as he slipped his fingers from her and backed away.

"Now then," he sighed. "Get rid of that thing."

She hesitated for a moment, a hint of surprise flashing in her eyes. Then she made her way, a bit unsteadily, to her knees, gathered up the hem of the gown and pulled it slowly up and over her head, stretching back languidly to drop it at the foot of the bed.

"Those too," he said. And, grinning slightly, she obligingly slipped off the lace knickers.

"That's better," he breathed, sparing only a moment to appreciate the sight of her before he lunged, his lips drawn again to her throat, one hand exploring the impossibly soft, smooth skin of her breasts as the other entwined itself in her hair.

He savored her shuddering breath and the quickening of her pulse as his fingers brushed across one of her nipples. Then his lips descended on her breasts as his hand trailed down her stomach, her hip, her thigh.

She gasped as his tongue flicked across her nipple and his fingers teased her moist entrance.

"Abel, please..." she moaned.

"Please what?"

Her frustrated growl disintegrated into a moan as a finger grazed her clitoris, and she lifted her hips in a near-desperate attempt to maintain the contact.

"I need you," she breathed.

He leaned in to whisper in her ear as he positioned himself at her entrance.

"You already have me."

He entered her slowly, inch by excruciatingly wonderful inch. For a moment, he was still, savoring each exquisite sensation and the image of her ecstacy, her face flushed and framed by a gilded halo of soft curls.

He then withdrew, just as slowly, and paused for a moment before thrusting into her again–more quickly, less gently. She gasped and threw her head back, and he echoed her with a shuddering gasp of his own.

He continued–withdrawing slowly, thrusting quickly–as she wrapped her arms around him, entwining her fingers in his hair. He gripped the bedcovers, struggling to keep his pace slow and relatively gentle, his control slipping further as her moans grew louder.

And then a chill ran down his spine as he felt the nanomachines stir, adrenaline and distraction conspiring to entice them. He froze, breathing deeply, fighting to calm them, to bury their will beneath his own.

"Abel?"

His heart fluttered at the concern suddenly audible beneath the desire in her voice, and he covered her lips with his own before she could say any more. He broke the kiss and, with a growl, thrust into her roughly. He was rewarded with a loud moan as she dug her fingernails into his shoulder.

He renewed his rhythm, abandoning himself this time, his pace soon growing frantic, desperate. He snaked a shaking hand between them to finger her clit, watching as she arched her back and tossed her head.

His lips descended on her throat as he threaded his fingers in her hair, pulling slightly.

"I want to hear you scream," he whispered.

Soon thereafter, she obliged, shouting her ecstacy in utter abandonment as her fingernails raked his back and her muscles clenched around him.

He followed her over the edge a moment later, his own moan a faint echo of her cries.

The world seemed to stop, for a moment, leaving them frozen together in bliss. And then it tilted.

He pulled away unsteadily and collapsed beside her, his breathing ragged, his heart racing, his mind struggling to form coherent thoughts even as he tried not to think.

As he stared blankly at the elaborate plaster molding that lined the ceiling, Catherina turned, propping herself on an elbow, and ran her fingers through his hair.

"I love you, Abel," she whispered, placing a chaste kiss on his forehead.

He closed his eyes.

"I know."

* * *

**A/N: **Part III shall, of course, be up as soon as possible. But it's likely to be, at least, a few weeks. The next week is going to be devoured by Gencon. And Part III is going to require some rather complex plotting, which takes time. And then there's the actual writing. Which also takes time. So yes. Rest assured that I am hard at work and shall present you with more fic as soon as I can manage. Also, much love and many thanks to those who have reviewed, thus far. 3 


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